


Great Shot, Ronnie Allen.

by cupcakeenigma



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Betting, F/M, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5136932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupcakeenigma/pseuds/cupcakeenigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Jo play pool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Great Shot, Ronnie Allen.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [floodplain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/floodplain/gifts).



Downtime between hunts got boring. Riding from motel to motel, stopping off at bars to hustle enough cash to get by, eating crappy food and drinking cheap beer, all the while just hoping to get wind of something more than your everyday salt and burn. It was a good day when they rolled by the Harvelle Roadhouse and could spend time there, if only because the beer was good and the company was better.

It was a little after closing, hunters and regulars alike leaving in good spirits as they made their way home, staggering out to sleep in their trucks and cars, or heading to the rooms they rented from the Harvelles. Dean had practically marched Sam up to their room to get him to sleep off the drinks he’d had, snorting his laughter as Sam rambled in his drunken state about how he was bigger and Dean was too bossy, but he’d been too wired to just roll right into bed himself. It was early enough to still get into trouble, late enough to find the best kind of trouble.

Trailing his fingers over the edge of the pool table, Dean took a deep breath, the smell of worn wood, alcohol, and smoke leaving him feeling so at home that he always felt a pang of loss in his chest when he and Sam hit the road again. This wasn’t the kind of life Dean wanted, it was too stationary, too comfortable, and he had so much to do out there that he didn’t think he could stomach being tied into one place, but for a place to stop and _breathe_ it was the best of them. Ellen ran a tight ship, she kept the drunks sweet and she kept the rabble out. It was a pit stop in the world that hunters clung to, dropping in on the way to a case, all fire and gunpowder about them, then stumbling in after, bruised and bloody but victorious. There had been the ones that didn’t come back, the ones that were a little too green to be in the life, or the ones that had been too old, too slow. Dean didn’t think about the number of good men and women he’d seen leave for a hunt and never come back.

“Thinking about playin’ a few frames?”

The soft lilt of Jo’s voice broke through Dean’s haze of thought and he turned to face her. She had fiery defiance about her even now, after knowing the taste of hunting, the thrill of it and the way it left them with shaking hands, too much adrenaline, the itch to keep going. With her hip jutted out, her arms crossed, and a lazy smirk on her face, Dean just didn’t see the kid she used to be anymore.

“You offerin’?”

Jo didn’t say anything, she just started to rack the balls on the worn-in green felt. The table was old; the once vibrant green now darkened and rubbed thin, the white lines faded, the wood stained, notches carved into it all over, keeping score of the countless games won and lost there. Jo handed him a cue and Dean nodded for her to break, gesturing to the table.

For a while they played in silence, the clacking of the pool balls against each other a sharp contrast to the quiet of the roadhouse. Jo was an old hand at the game, she had been hustling grown men out of cash for most of her life, she knew what she was doing. As she leaned over the table, Dean watched the curve of her back, the way her chest came low to the table, her shirt brushing the felt. As he followed the line of her body with his gaze, he heard her clear her throat, his eyes snapping to meet hers.

Jo straightened up before taking her shot, watching him with amusement in her warm brown eyes. Amusement and something else, behind the ferocity, like anxiousness. Hunger for something she wanted that she wasn’t sure she’d get.

“How about we make a bet?” Not giving him a chance to suggest anything monetary, Jo kept going. “If I win, you finally stop just _lookin’_. If you win-”

“If I win, we do it in my car,” Dean cut in, a lazy smile drawn across his face.

The simple fact was that they danced around each other like this every time. They watched, they flirted, they got as close to going for it as they could without actually making the move, and if Jo was going to make a push for more then Dean wasn’t going to pass up the chance. He’d be a fool to ignore the opportunity she was finally giving him.

Jo rolled her eyes, scoffing at him. “Fine. Whatever.”

Dean slid off his leather jacket, nodding for her to take her shot. When she leaned over, he stood close by her this time, enough that it could probably be considered intentionally throwing her off, but she sank the ball she’d been aiming for anyway. Jo straightened and Dean didn’t give her the space he would have normally, instead smirking as he looked down at her.

Jo made a sound like she was disgusted, but her grin said otherwise as she gave him a shove at his chest and squirmed out of the way, letting him take his shot next.

They matched each other shot for shot, but this time they didn’t shroud themselves in the comfortable silence they’d had from before. Each point scored was contested as cheating, eager hands grabbed at shirts and slid over waists, pushing and pulling, both of them buzzing with excitement at knowing it was going to happen, that it just came down to _where_ it was going to happen.

“Sure, just climb on the table,” Dean complained as Jo took her next shot.

“Some of us are small, Dean, some of us have to climb up to reach. Don’t act like you don’t love the view.”

Dean laughed, taking a drink of the beer he’d grabbed five shots ago. “Never said I didn’t.”

He took his next shot, missing only because Jo purposefully leaned down in front of the pocket he’d been aiming for and he was pretty damn sure her mother would murder him for the way he was looking at her.

“Great shot, Ronnie Allen,” Jo quipped, her grin wicked and utterly proud of herself.

“Shut up,” Dean drawled back.

When Jo lowered herself over the table, reaching to make her last shot, Dean slid his hand over her lower back. She stood straight, glaring at him for trying to distract her, and Dean’s smile just grew even more mischievous. He pressed her back gently, against the table, his arm circling her waist, intending to kiss her first, but her hand caught the back of his neck and she pulled him down, their lips meeting with desperation, all pent up from every damn time they’d been this close but never quite got there. His hands bunched up the back of her shirt and he held her tight to him, lips dragging over hers as he took a breath, his senses fogged up with the smell of her shampoo and the cloying scent of old beer and whiskey, the linger of smoke in the bar never quite going away.

Jo pulled back long enough to meet his gaze. Without a moment wasted, Dean lifted her, sitting her on the edge of the table and kissing her all over again. It was deeper, hungrier, her hands pulling at the collar of his shirt, at his hair, fingernails scratching the back of his neck. He bit at her lip, his tongue sliding over hers, his hands rough on her thighs, drawing sighs of pleasure from her as he pressed himself up against her. She tasted of the vodka she’d been drinking, he knew he would taste of beer, and the way she drew him in was far more addictive than any drink could be. He had to steady them both with his hand on the felt of the table, her leg hooked around him, giving the semblance of trapping him there, somewhere he didn’t want to escape from anyway.

Breathless when they parted, Jo took her time letting it end, even if it was just the beginning for tonight. She drew it out, taking smaller kisses from him, biting at his bottom lip, tugging at his shirt, rocking herself against his body. He was firm and rough, he was just the kind of guy her mother didn’t want her to be with, even if they both knew by now that Dean was softer than he pretended to be. Just the same, he was careful, tender, and Jo knew she’d made the right decision tonight.

Pushing him back, Jo slid down off the table, meeting his gaze for a moment longer before she turned around, taking her final shot. As the ball sank into the right corner pocket, Jo smirked, flicking her blonde curls over her shoulder and looking up at Dean with that same defiance in her expression that she thrived on, like she simply lived to push the boundaries of the world she was tangled up in.

“I win,” she announced.

Dean didn’t argue, and he sure as hell didn’t argue later on, after the fact, when she announced she’d won again and pinned him down to her bed for another round.


End file.
